


Don't Panic!

by leah8



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 07:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4339877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leah8/pseuds/leah8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for this: Basically what the title says. An Inquistior who has anxiety and/or is prone to panic attack. LI doesn't know this until they either recognize the symptoms or walks in on them having a panic attack. LI helps them calm down and comforts them.</p><p>-Any LI is fine but would prefer Iron Bull or Dorian</p><p>-Make this as angsty and/or fluffy as possible! The more the better!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Panic!

**Author's Note:**

> Aha! I knew I had a fanfiction account knocking around here somewhere. *proceeds to brush away dust*. As stated this is a prompt fill fic featuring Dorian and a Male Elvhen Inquisitor suffering from anxiety.
> 
> To forewarn everyone, whilst I used to experience panic attacks during my youth, it's been a long time since I've dealt with one so I hope the description sounds accurate enough and that even though there are some humourous bits in this it is not my intention to make light of the issue itself - one of my close friends suffers from anxiety so I know how life-affecting it can be.
> 
> That's all. Thanks.

He’d been managing so well up until now. He really had, especially considering the amount of trouble that had been dumped so squarely, so resolutely, so un-friggin’-returnabley on his not-so-broad shoulders.

 

Surely anyone would find it a little stressful going from a lowly servant just keeping his head down and getting on with life–which, with entirely sad, tragic irony, had included attending the conclave with his mistress–to Ultimate Saviour of the Whole World, as chosen by Andraste herself. Or possibly The Maker, depending on who you spoke to.

 

In any case Mahannon thought he’d been managing to cope remarkably well, all things considered. And even when things had got a little… ‘too much’ he’d been able to manoeuvre his way into a private setting with no one being any the wiser. Since he had a strong suspicion that everyone wouldn’t be quite so convinced of his _Saviourability_ if they saw what happened when things got a little too much for him to handle. When the problems and pressures and proclamations and perpetual, persistent, never-ending decisions no longer just weighed on him but actually pushed _down_ on him, squeezing and squeezing until there was no air left in his lungs and no blood left in his heart and no strength left in his muscles so that all he could do was surrender to the terror as it engulfed him…

 

Indeed, it was during _those_ times that he sought solitude with the single-minded motivation of one facing a rapidly diminishing countdown, praying to the gods that he never normally cared for that he would make it to safety before the irrepressible wave overtook him.

 

Which was, essentially, what he was trying to do now– _if only people would stop interrupting him long enough to allow him to get to his damn bedroom!_ This was trouble with residing at Skyhold; oh sure, the beds were far comfier than the camp ones and you didn’t have to travel far to get a drink, but there were just people _everywhere_! And all of them wanting to talk to him about some crisis or other, or discuss some vital piece of information they’d just discovered, or even just enquire what he wanted for dinner–and whilst he would normally have _loved_ discussing what he would like for dinner, he just really needed to be _left alone_ right now!

 

After barely managing to evade a report-laden Josephine, he appeared on the landing just in time to spot Vivienne a few feet away with a suspiciously thoughtful look across her face. In response he hastily ducked back down the very steps he’d just ascended.

 

With the tell-tale drumbeat of his accelerating pulse growing ever stronger in his ears, he marched swiftly past the groups of bodies stood about, resolutely avoiding eye contact at all costs and trying desperately to look as though he was in the middle of something vitally important, something that couldn’t possibly be interrupted for any possible reason.

 

He makes it through to the other side of the courtyard in one piece. He practically flings the door back on its hinges, regrettably drawing a few surprised looks–but even more regrettably drawing several concerned I’d-better-ask-the-Inquisitor-if-he’s-okay looks–in his direction.

 

Yet before anyone could possibly open their respective mouths, he’s scampered through and shut the door securely–but also with a meticulous I’m-definitely-okay-there’s-no-problem-here softness–behind him.

 

His mind gives a quick leap with gratitude as he sees the hallway in front of him utterly devoid of all signs of life. With increasing exigency, his legs rush him along the path, the sound of his breathing becoming distinctly more audible as he strives to retain enough air in his lungs to complete his increasingly critical undertaking.

 

He erupts into the main hall with more conspicuousness than he would have liked. He could always tell when things were beginning to get desperate because his extremities would lose their cooperativeness in doing what his brain instructed them.

 

Thus, with his gaze firmly locked onto the marble floor, he darts across the brightly lit room, doggedly chanting in his head ‘Almost there, almost there, almost there,’, and putting all his concentration in _not_ breaking out into a full blown sprint.

 

For a time he thinks that he may well make it. But then, just as the door to his bed chambers looms blissfully into his line of vision, so does something else. A pair of feet. Delicate, shapely feet belonging to an oh-so-delicate, oh-so-shapely human girl who was just looking at him so earnestly and so dotingly and so _get-your-ass-out-of-my-way-you-stupid-serving-wench!_

 

“Inquisitor,” the serving maid begins, yet her chipper tone is overridden with a haste that is almost as quick as the Inquisitor’s own footsteps.

 

“I’m so sorry I can’t stop,” he interrupts, using what felt like the last vestiges of air circulating his body to gasp out the obligatory explanation.

 

Thankfully he doesn’t have to see the way the girl’s face morphs from cheerfully obliging to confusedly hurt since he’s slammed his way through the door– _the blessed door!_ –nary a thundered heartbeat later.

 

With an exhalation of air that should, logically, make breathing that much more easier–but which only manages to ironically heighten the tightness in his chest–Mahannon all but collapses to the floor.

 

“Okay, just breathe, just breathe,” he repeats feverishly to himself, even as he feels the world around him beginning to recede further and further into the greyness swimming at the edges of his vision.

 

He begins to painstakingly crawl his way up the steps–if only because if he was going to conk out, he’d much rather do it on a rug than on stone.

 

The task of pulling himself up one dusty tread after another has the effect of concentrating his frenzied mind slightly away from the choking, cloying, inescapable panic thundering its way through his senses, and his quaking limbs manage to drag him up to his mercifully empty chamber.  

 

But then, before he’s even been able to hoist himself up the final set of stairs and into the room proper, the pressure started to escalate unbearably. He finds his mind assaulted by one horrifying scenario after another as all the things he _needs_ to do, all the things people are _expecting_ him to do closed in on him to swirl round and round like an inescapable tornado and his soul is resounding with hopeless truth that the whole world’s expecting him to succeed and they don’t realise that he knows nothing– _absolutely nothing_ –about anything because all he was was an elven slave who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and they all think he’s some hero and they don’t know they don’t know _they don’t know_ –

 

_~Knock, knock~_

 

The noise is unexpected enough that it manages to break through the mushrooming terror, momentarily distracting Mahannon’s attention for the briefest of moments as his head swings towards the door.

 

But then the terror reasserts itself threefold when he realises that there’s someone _on the other side_ , someone who wants to see him and they’re going to see him like _this_ and they can’t they can’t they can’t no one can find out –

 

“Go away.” The croak is barely louder than a whisper but it’s all he can summon forth from the dread and the panic and the fear and he hopes to all the gods that it will be enough to just make whoever it was go go go away –

 

“Inquisitor?” The questioningly spoken word floats through from the other side of the door and _oh-no_ he knows that voice; that voice belonged to _him_. He who was so confident and so strong and who Mahannon had loved spending time with even if he was always too nervous to do so with any regularity and _he_ couldn’t be the one to see him like this; _no,_ _no, no,_ _not him, not him_ –

 

“Dorian,” he rasps, even as he tries to all but stop his lungs from taking in any air whatsoever, because they were functioning so _loudly_ and he would hear– _he would hear through the door!_ “I can’t talk now,” he excuses, virtually forcing the words out through willpower alone and why-oh-why did it have to be him of all people? The one person whom he wanted more than any other to think well of him and he was sounding like a complete asshole!

 

But Dorian wasn’t going–he wasn’t accepting the instruction, the plea, he was just waiting there because Mahannon could hear him shifting behind the door, shifting closer to the wood and _oh gods oh gods oh gods –_

 

“Inquisitor… Is something wrong?” And now his voice had changed, had evolved from merely perfunctory to almost suspicious and he was going to find out _he was going to find out_ –

 

“Please, Dorian,” Mahannon was all but begging now, begging with the last of his strength and the last of his lucidity, “Please just go.”

 

And he can’t even focus anymore because his eyes were filling with hot, angry tears of frustration and despair and he can’t breathe _he can’t breathe_ and his lungs have closed _they’ve closed_ _they’ve_ _closed_ –

 

But then, suddenly, there is a blurry figure crouching down in front of him and strong, comforting arms are being wrapped round him and words are being murmured soothingly, so soothingly, down at him.

 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. It’s alright. Here, just focus on me.” And then there’s a strong hand that’s being placed gently but firmly under his chin to compel his face upwards. And then through the tears he’s staring up at Dorian’s beautiful gorgeous face and he’s focusing on those beautiful gorgeous eyes and he’s listening to Dorian’s softly spoken commands. “You’re going to be fine. I’m here. It’s alright. Just concentrate on breathing. Just take one deep breath in... And out. In… And Out.”

 

And Dorian’s going through the motions with him, showing him what to do and ensuring that he actually does it, over and over and over again… And–even more amazingly!–Mahannon’s body is actually doing it; it’s actually doing what he wants even if his hands are having to cling onto Dorian as though the man was the only thing keeping him from being torn away into oblivion.

 

Slowly but surely, the thudding drumbeat of his heart begins to lessen. It begins to reduce its frantic speed, its relentless attempts to pound itself right out of Mahannon’s too-small chest.

 

As Dorian continues to hold him, continues to direct him, continues to _ground_ him the rushing blood roaring through his ears steadily softens, whilst the grasping spectres around his vision recede, slinking away and taking their horror-ridden visions of failure and death with them.

 

An all-encompassing kind of relief overwhelms him as his body once again defers control back to him, yielding to his authority as though there had never been any contest otherwise.

 

It’s this absolute relief that leaves Mahannon feeling nothing less than the drained; nigh on exhausted in fact, so that he finds himself suddenly slumping forward with absolute alleviation and absolute weariness.

 

He barely even registers the fact that he’s slumped forward _against_ something; something soft and warm and comforting that’s enfolding round him and that smells of herbs and a pleasant–so very, very pleasant–musk…

 

**

 

He doesn’t sleep, just drifts in and out awareness. Not even when his body is moved–carried, in fact–does he rouse fully, because there’s a soft murmur in his ear telling him that he doesn’t have to, that everything was alright. And it was too much effort to actually wake anyhow, not when he knows he can trust the voice, can trust the arms gently laying him down upon the bed, not when he could simply relax back against that familiar chest and return to his peaceful doze…

 

**

 

When he eventually returns to the land of the fully conscious, he’s unsure of how much time has passed; having a sense in the back of his now-reawakening mind that it has been a while.

 

But that notion is quickly consigned to unimportant when he realises just what position he’s currently lying in.

 

Sprawled across whomever was sharing his bed his legs had managed to thoroughly entangle themselves with the other person’s, reminiscent of an extremely dexterous octopus, whilst his head had managed to wedge itself tightly beneath their chin so that his breath was wafting directly beneath the collar of their elaborately tailored robe; which would have been only _slightly_ embarrassing, were it not for the fact that a string of drool had also managed to wheedle its way out of his lips to follow its way down the exact same path.

 

It’s with a rapid sort of alarm that he remembers just who it was who’d come to his room after he’d barely succeeded in escaping there so as to keep his affliction hidden.

 

With alacrity he jerks his head up to come face to face with his impromptu helper and current hostage.

 

Hazel eyes blink calmly back at him.

 

A rather lengthy pause follows, while Mahannon struggles to think of something–anything–remotely useful, remotely excusatory, to say.

 

It’s an absurdly long time before he’s able to formulate anything even resembling coherent speech. And even then, it’s a pitifully poor attempt. “Ahem, err, sorry about, well, about that…” He clears his throat awkwardly whilst Dorian continues looking on with the merest quirk of a dark eyebrow. “Err,” Mahannon tries again, “I was–It was just… Oh this is embarrassing!” Giving up on maintaining eye contact and doubly giving up on even trying to find a way to lessen the damage to his reputation or what the other man must think of him now, he hangs his head. _Curse the gods, why did it have to be_ him _of all people?_

 

Before he can fully lapse into miserable introspection though, said man has come back with his own response to Mahannon’s feeble attempts at an explanation.

 

“Oh, I don’t know. I rather enjoyed having you clinging onto me like a limpet.”

 

Heated blood surges up to vallaslin marked cheeks, coating them in a pungent shade of puce. “Yes, well… sorry about that.” Mahannon’s tone is a mixture of both mortification and despondency.

 

Whereas Dorian’s is near polar opposite, as he replies in a way that spoke not one whit about uncomfortableness or awkwardness, “No need to apologise, Inquisitor.”

 

Another stilted pause follows before the need becomes overwhelming and Mahannon’s gaze jerks back upward in order to for him to blurt out, “I don’t want anyone else to know.”

 

“Oh? Why?” Dorian responds, as if he found such a request exceptionally peculiar.

 

Mahannon scrambles up from the bed, disengaging himself from the mage–which he’s sure he meant to do when he’d first come round but had somehow… forgotten. “Because it’s just,” he gestures agitatedly before snapping, “Because I don’t want people to know, okay?!” Surely that wasn’t so hard to understand! It was hardly something to brag about!

 

Dorian gives an idle scratch of his chin. He appeared quite at home stretched out on Mahannon’s bed, and gave no indication that he felt the need to modify his lounging recline, even as he spoke with thoughtful contemplation. “So… you’re asking me to keep a secret, are you?”

 

Mahannon blinked, caught briefly off guard by the unexpected question before replying back firmly, “Yes. I suppose I am, yes.”

 

Dorian’s impassive expression suddenly turns sly as he sends Mahannon a sidelong glance that almost seemed… sinister. “And what is it you’re willing to give in return for my silence?”

 

Mahannon’s brow creases in confusion, which is all too quickly followed by tendrils of worry nipping at his heels. “Wh..what am I willing to give?” he repeats faintly back at the other occupant of his room. He was suddenly feeling very ill at ease at the unanticipated direction in which the conversation seemed to have turned.

 

“Mmhmm.” The affirmative sound that flowed from Dorian’s mouth bordered on a purr, and in an instant it seems that Mahannon has a whole new set of problems to worry about. His face crumbles as he suddenly concludes that the man was going to blackmail him–he was going to be blackmailed and _oh this was so terrible, how could this even hap_ –

 

“Oh don’t get all upset!” The abrupt cry has the effect of curbing Mahannon’s rapidly swelling apprehension–if only because it replaced it with bewilderment. Which was only compounded when he glanced back to see Dorian moving to sit on the edge of the bed with a now extremely irritated look on his face. “I was only trying to find a way to spend more time with you,” the mage proclaims in a way that could only be described as defensive. “ _Of course_ I’m not going to mention anything to anyone! What type of person do you take me for?!”

 

Mahannon’s unable to stop himself from answering. “A tevinter.”

 

“Yes, well,” Dorian gives a conceding nod, even if he does follow it up with a sniff of disdain. “We’re not all power-grabbing despots, you know.” Then after a moment he further adds, pretty begrudgingly, “Well, some of us aren’t at least.”

 

Now thrown very much off-balance by everything, Mahannon struggles to decipher just what was making the mage act so… oddly. Eventually, and still not all sure he was understanding things correctly, he carefully asks, “Why did you… _Do you_ want to spend time with me?”

 

The look Dorian sends him is reminiscent of one that a teacher would send to a pupil who was being extremely slow at catching on. “Obviously I do,” the mage states, as if it were the most obvious thing in all of Thedas.

 

“Why?” Mahannon asks in all seriousness, finding himself legitimately confounded by the notion that such a brilliant, sophisticated man would go to such lengths to spend time with him of all people.

 

“Oh I don’t know!” Dorian exclaims dramatically, throwing his hands in the air. “No doubt to further my evil plans to rejuvenate the power of the Imperium by corrupting the Herald of Andraste. Or maybe it’s just because I happen to _like_ spending time with you and from the doe eyes you’re always sending in my direction, I had come to the conclusion that you had felt the same. Clearly I was wrong.” Without warning the mage stands with an angry swish of robes and turns towards the stairs.

 

Without thinking, Mahannon steps forward to stop him. “No, wait!” he beseeches. “Don’t go. I do… I do like spending time with you.” And just like that the truth that he’d been trying to hide for so long is put before the very person who, less than a few minutes ago, Mahannon would have given anything to keep from. Strangely enough it didn’t feel half as awkward as he’d imagined. Especially when the mage swings back around on his heel with an entirely forgiving expression on his face.

 

“Well, who wouldn’t?” Dorian answers, as though it were a completely indisputable fact. Although Mahannon couldn’t help but note that the smile now gracing the man’s lips appeared to be one of authentic pleasure.

 

Despite the sudden soaring of his heart at the notion that all his unrequited affection for the man may not have been so unrequited after all, Mahannon still found himself slightly confused over one issue. “But why did you try to _make_ me spend time with you?” he enquires.

 

“Well mostly because whenever I’ve tried any other tactic, you’ve always run off as though I’ve set your socks on fire!” Dorian retorts back peevishly.

 

“I don’t wear socks,” Mahannon can’t help but correct in a small but practical voice.

 

In an entirely put-upon fashion, Dorian rolls his eyes whilst letting out an exaggeratedly disgruntled huff, which only leads to Mahannon letting out a small chuckle. Then he takes a step forwards, gesturing with his hand as he speaks softly. “Thanks for your help in… Well, when I was… you know.”

 

“Like I said, it was my pleasure.” Dorian’s answer manages to sound both sincere and salacious at the same time, but his gaze is soft and reassuring as it holds his.

 

Mahannon was glad Dorian wasn’t making a big issue out of the whole thing. That he wasn’t bombarding him with questions or making assertions as to what had happened and what should be done about it–both of which had happened in the past when other people had inadvertently caught him in such a state.

 

“So, umm… do you want to stay for a while? I could have dinner sent up.” He tries to make the offer sound more casual than hopeful, but at the same time, is infinitely pleased when Dorian answers in a typical genial style.

 

“Ah yes, I suppose it must be time to choke down some more of the pigswill that’s passed off as food around here. Still,” hazel eyes sparkle once more, “at least I’ll have pleasant company to distract me.”

 

Mahannon can’t stop his face from rapidly reheating at the very deliberate way the mage looks his body up and down and he instinctively tries to conceal the embarrassing occurrence by ducking his head to the side. He’s about to turn away when the touch of a thumb to his cheek sends all previous ideas sailing out of his mind. He looks up to see that Dorian was no longer stood a few feet away but was now right beside him, gazing down at him with such a warm expression it sends his stomach flip-flopping.

 

“You know, you look adorable when you blush,” the mage murmurs, before adding in the most utterly charming way imaginable, “Almost as adorable as when you’re drooling on me.”

 

**

 

 

 

 

  

 


End file.
